


Yellow Card

by superstringtheory



Series: Thawing [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Blow Jobs, Coming on the belly, Feeding Kink, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Slash, Stuffing, Weight Gain, eating contest, gentle dom!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky enters the annual Nathan's Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest on Coney Island in New York. He's very determined to win. Happy birthday indeed, Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Card

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely later on in the timeline of this series of stories.

_ They call her the Black Widow. She’s tiny, and looks unthreatening at first glance. She’s cute, really-- adorable, even. Bucky thinks that if anyone were to say this to her face, though, they might regret it.  _

_ He watches her the same way he’s watched her twin-in-name before-- appraisingly, with his practiced assassin’s eye. She moves quickly, birdlike, laughing. She probably doesn’t even weigh a hundred pounds. Threat level: minimal.  _

_ Oh, is he wrong. Is he ever.  _

_ “Told you so,” Nat says later, deadpan. “You should never underestimate a Black Widow.” _

 

~~~~~

 

It’s the Fourth of July-- Steve’s birthday. It’s one of those things that Bucky finds so ironic about this whole Captain America thing (like, his birthday is the Fourth of July? Really?  _ Really _ ?), but it’s also a fact he can live with- fuzzy memories of fireworks seen from Steve’s bedroom window, birthday candles glowing in the dark. 

They're sharing an adorable Airbnb apartment in New York with Nat, Steve and Bucky twined together in a bed with curtains hung around it and Nat on an air mattress she’d graciously insisted on and then complained about every chance after. 

“So, where do you want to go for your birthday, old man?” Nat asks in the morning, sipping tea from a mug that proclaims BORN IN THE USA with a picture of Obama’s birth certificate on it. 

Steve squinches his eyes together adorably, looking a little misty. “Coney Island,” he says after a beat of silence. “Yeah. I want to spend my birthday at Coney Island.”

 

~~~~~

 

They take the subway, and when Bucky and Steve make identical faces of disgust at the loud rap music emanating from a teenager’s headphones, Nat tuts and calls them “grumpy old men.” 

“Nat,” Steve says seriously, “if you ever want to team up during Trivial Pursuit again, you'll watch yourself.”

Natasha just raises her eyebrows and says, “Please, I was winning board games long before you two early twentieth century lovebirds came along. Besides, you aren't good for much after 1945.” She pretends to pick at a hangnail while Steve glares at her. 

“You know what I could go for right about now?” Bucky asks, looking beatific as he leans back in the subway seat, slight double chin appearing. He doesn't wait for Nat or Steve to guess. “A hot dog.” 

“Mmm,” Steve replies, considering. 

“Or maybe a couple of hot dogs,” Bucky finishes. “Yeah. What d’you say to hot dogs for your birthday lunch, Stevie?” 

Steve swallows, tracing Bucky’s softer jaw- and waistlines with his gaze. A couple, ten, twenty… It  _ is _ his birthday, after all. 

“Yeah,” Steve says casually, squeezing Bucky's hand. “Hot dogs sound perfect.”

 

~~~~~

 

“Hey, Buck, you remember that old hot dog place out here? Nate’s?” Steve asks when they get off the subway, emerging into bright sunshine and waves of people dressed in red, white, and blue. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says distractedly, tilting his head to the side, trying to catch something being announced on a loudspeaker. “I think it's not too far away.”

They walk a bit, trying not to lose one another in the growing crowd and hubbub, until Nat stops in front of a poster, hands on hips. 

“Hang on, boys, I think we found it.”

~~~~~

The poster is mustard colored, probably on purpose, and proclaims today, Steve's birthday, as the annual “Nathan’s Famous 4th of July Hot Dog Eating Contest.”

Steve thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Bucky's sweet mouth wrapped around dozens (dozens!?) of hot dogs, the little moans Bucky makes as he eats, the way he gets sleepy and pliant when overfull, napping like a kitten in Steve's lap while Steve rubs his belly. 

Whether or not he's in heaven, Steve's going to hell soon. 

“It seems there's a little contest today,” Nat says, smirking, meeting Steve's eyes. She's got his number, that's for sure, and it's a handbasket built for two. 

Judging by the cacophony of noise nearby, the contest is far from little. Steve steps closer to the poster to read the fine print. 

Bucky, eyes shining, says, “Do you think I should do it, Steve?” 

Does he.

 

~~~~~

 

The contest has very specific rules about a lot of things. First of all, contestants are supposed to have won a qualifying contest in another American city before making their way to Coney Island, but Steve notes that other contestants may be allowed in by “special invitation.” Steve thinks that: a) he’s Captain America, b) it’s his birthday, c) which is the most American holiday ever, so d) his boyfriend should definitely be allowed into the contest by special invitation. 

He’s right. It takes surprisingly little time for Steve to flash gleams of blue eyes and teeth-- hey, World War II may be over but Aryan features can still get you somewhere in this country-- and Bucky’s in, being given a t-shirt (“extra large, right?”) and a spot to stand and a girl in a white miniskirt to hand him plates of hot dogs. The contest organizer Steve talks to says that they would even allow Steve onstage alongside Bucky, to help hand him the hot dogs (since the lack of arm and all, and the whole Captain America, birthday, etc thing). Steve allows himself to daydream this for a brief moment (feeding Bucky copious amounts of food _ in public _ ), but shakes his head. 

“Nah, he wants to do everything for himself, pretty much.” This is a big part of why it means so much to Steve that Bucky lets Steve tell him what to do, submits and looks trustingly up at Steve with big grey eyes. Sure, even armless, Bucky can do basically anything he wants himself (except maybe tie a shoe), and the fact that he allows Steve to make decisions for him, to give commands-- it’s a bit dizzying, at times. 

Bucky looks up, then, already dressed in the t-shirt (emblazoned with an anthropomorphic hot dog), and gives Steve a big grin. 

Another rule Steve takes particular note of is the so-called “yellow card” rule- apparently, penalty yellow cards may be given for “messy eating.” It gets Steve a little hot just to think about it.

 

~~~~~

 

This year’s contest, it transpires, is a special one: women and men together instead of having separate contests. One of Bucky’s main competition is next to him onstage, a tiny Asian woman nicknamed the Black Widow. She is a previous champion, although she looks like she could barely eat three hot dogs in a sitting, much less dozens. Bucky is not concerned by her, prior triumph or no. 

Steve stays with Bucky until it's almost time for the competition to begin- rubbing his shoulders and giving him a mini pep talk like he's back on the spangle circuit, all while the girl in the miniskirt is setting up big paper cups of water next to a platter of hot dogs stacked like a cheerleading pyramid. 

“What are the cups for?” Steve asks the girl. 

“Dipping,” she says, as if it should be obvious. “You dip the buns to make them easier to swallow.”

Bucky immediately decides that he is not going to dip. Soggy hot dog bun, no thanks. He's swallowed hot dogs just fine all his life so far without resorting to dampening them in some kind of one player hot dog pong. 

Just before Steve goes to stand with Nat (who somehow has a space near the front of the crowd, standing with a bored yet lethal expression on her face and a buffer zone of at least a foot separating her from the rest of the spectators, he gives Bucky one last shoulder squeeze and a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“Don’t you dare,” Steve whispers fiercely from behind, “get a yellow card.” Steve's placement and this tone are enough for Bucky to get half-hard, thinking about Steve fisting his hands in his hair and giving him directions, but the announcer’s magnified voice brings his attention back to the task at hand. Bucky glances behind him to see Steve making his way along the back of the stage and to the steps, going to join Nat in the crowd.

 

~~~~~

 

Bucky starts the contest off strong. He's feeling good. He was craving a Coney Island hot dog; now he has dozens- as many as he can eat. 

The first few hot dogs go down easily. He doesn’t need this ‘dipping’ nonsense-- it’s obviously for non-winners (and, you know, the  _ actual _ professional eaters in this competition). 

By hot dog nine, though, he's starting to see the appeal- his mouth is getting dry and how in the hell is that tiny woman already two hot dogs ahead? He pauses to take a gulp from the cup of soda he'd insisted on, and burps, long and low, which immediately rejuvenates him. He's still got room. Hell, he could practically eat that minuscule lady and still have room. This. Is. No. Sweat. (Never mind that his temples are sweating, along with the area between his pecs and his lower back.)

 

~~~~~

 

By hot dog seventeen, the rejuvenation is a distant memory, the cup of soda has been drained, and Bucky is dipping with the rest of them, no longer caring about a few waterlogged carbs. 

Hot dog twenty-three, he's also moving from side to side, stomach desperately trying to digest this onslaught. 

He has to stop for about twenty seconds after hot dog twenty-four, feeling sudden nausea. He sets down hot dog twenty-five and carefully kneads the side of his belly, hoping beyond all hope that he's not about to disqualify himself. Instead, he knocks loose a huge belch, and he smiles in utter relief, patting his gut like a little dog. (Given that he feels at least fifty percent hot dog right now, this seems fitting.)

 

~~~~~

 

“What's he doing?” Steve asks, squinting up at Bucky onstage, swaying from side to side as he eats. 

“Buns and Roses.” Nat looks bored, texting without looking up. 

“Excuse me?” 

“It's an eating method. Helps the food get down to the stomach, apparently. Like those other bozos jumping up and down.” 

“I see,” Steve says, although he doesn't. However, Bucky does look pretty darn cute up there. Steve can see the round swell of his belly even from here.

“I read it on Wikipedia,” Nat continues, like she doesn't want Steve to think this factoid is amongst her general knowledge repertoire. 

Steve's still watching Bucky carefully. “Do you think he looks like he's struggling?” His forehead creases. 

“Well, he's now had, what, twenty-five hot dogs?” 

“Actually, twenty-seven. And that Black Widow woman’s on her thirty-third.” 

Natasha whistles. “He's not just struggling, he's getting his ass kicked.”

 

~~~~~

 

Bucky's starting to think that he may have underestimated the Black Widow. She's a solid eight dogs ahead of him, and is only continuing at her current pace as he feels himself slowing. 

His stomach feels unsettled, unhappy with him for making it continuously accept more and more of the same thing it no longer wants in any way. He thinks he might be making up for all those decades he wasn't eating encased processed meat products. 

Hot dog twenty-six. Oh, what he'd give to be able to rub his belly right now (well, not his right arm, certainly). Or to lie down on the Airbnb air mattress (it's closer to the door than the bed) and let Steve fuss over him with a hot water bottle and those soothing hands of his. 

(Thirty-five for Black Widow.) He might not care anymore if he wins.

 

~~~~~

 

Bucky swishes some water around in his mouth, burps but finds no relief. He stretches his back briefly. His belly looks (and feels) huge. 

Hot dog twenty-eight. Black Widow’s on thirty-seven and his stomach is pulsing. He can feel his heartbeat right above the dimple of his belly button (which is, admittedly, quite a bit deeper than it used to be). 

He shoves the first bite of hot dog twenty-nine into his mouth and looks around to locate Steve in the crowd. 

Steve, kinky little freak that he is, is watching Bucky like the cat watches the laser pointer when Bucky makes it dance along the wall. Steve looks ready to pounce. 

Bucky gulps some water, sloshing a bit on his shirt, before continuing on hot dog twenty-nine. 

Even from up here, he can clearly make out Steve mouthing the words “yellow card.”

 

~~~~~

 

Black Widow: forty. Bucky: thirty… ish. He's lagging, determinedly continuing to shove bites of hot dog into his mouth, but he knows that there is now less than a minute left and unless he can come up with some way to magic at least ten hot dogs into his gut by then, he's not going to win. Third place is still possible, maybe, but he's not sure quite how much more his overtaxed belly can handle. 

Thirty-one is a real struggle. 

The final count- Bucky: thirty-one. Black Widow: forty-three. It turns out Black Widow isn't the winner after all (instead, a huge and bearded guy who had over seventy hot dogs); she's third place and Bucky’s off the podium. At this point, he's feeling pretty all right with this- he's not sure he can actually stand up straight right now, at least without a “reversal of fortune” (what the contest calls a, well,  _ rapid return _ of hot dogs). 

After the timer goes off, there's a lot of cheering and groaning (the former on the part of the crowd; the latter, Bucky) and a release of mustard-colored confetti. Bucky is far too full to go looking for Steve and Nat in the crowd, so he just waits up on stage for them to find him and hopefully do some sort of wizardry that will soon have him horizontal.

 

~~~~~

 

“Hey, Buck.” Steve's voice is gentle but still distinct from the noise of the crowd. “You were amazing up there.”

“I didn't win, though.” 

Steve pulls Bucky into a very careful hug, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Well, you're still my hot dog champion of the day.” He leans in even closer and lowers his voice, “And I gotta say, watching you was a pretty great birthday gift, even for a grumpy old guy like me.” He nips at Bucky's ear. “Can't wait to get you back.” 

“Ugh.” Bucky pats his belly, rubbing lightly at its sore apex. “Can't wait for you to get your hands on me.” 

At this comment, Steve looks positively wolfish, and Natasha types rapidly on her phone. 

“I'm getting you two an Uber. Hopefully by the time I make it back on the subway you won't be all… sticky.” She gives them an appraising glance. 

Bucky feels himself flush bright red, but Steve seems to be too hot and bothered to be embarrassed. 

“Thanks, Nat, we’ll try, but no promises.” 

“Ew. Okay, whatever, I'll go for a long coffee, too. Happy birthday, you're welcome.” 

Steve pulls Nat into a bear hug that she reluctantly returns. “You're the best.”

“Don't you forget it.”

 

~~~~~

 

The Uber ride is long and decadently expensive (thanks, Nat, you spider with a heart of gold). Bucky lies down in the backseat of the black SUV with his head in Steve’s lap and dozes most of the way, Steve rubbing small circles into the side of his swollen belly. 

He hiccups when he has to sit up to climb slowly out of the SUV and he winces as Steve decorously runs around the side of the car to help haul him out. 

“I hate walk-ups,” he pants a few minutes later, leaning heavily against Steve as Steve fumbles for the apartment keys. 

“Shh, baby, we're almost there.” 

Once Steve gets the door, Bucky staggers about three steps to the couch (closer still than the air mattress) and gingerly sits down, gut mounding in front of him. 

“Hey, I'm going to go get you some stuff, okay?” Steve tucks a piece of hair behind Bucky's ear. “I'll be right back.” 

“Sure,” Bucky huffs, wincing as his stomach cramps. “I'll still be here.”

 

~~~~~

 

Steve returns too quickly with a weird look on his face and a fancy cupcake. 

Bucky sighs. “Natasha?”

Steve's grin makes fireworks look dull. “Natasha.”

 

~~~~~

 

Steve sets the fancy cupcake (still in its fancy bakery box) down on the side table. “Not now, baby. In a little while, but right now, I want you to relax.” 

“Little hard to relax when you’ve got almost three dozen hot dogs in your belly,” Bucky points out. “Hurts, Stevie.” 

“I know, Buck. I know. Just hang on a second, that cupcake got me all distracted.” Steve bustles back into the kitchen, opening cupboards and making the microwave beep-beep-BEEP and clinking ice in a glass. He comes back with what looks like an oversized bean bag draped over his arm and a tall glass of ice water with a straw in it. 

“Here.” Steve hands Bucky the glass of water, then drapes the bean bag-looking thing over the top of his stomach. 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks. “It’s… warm.”

“Sip some water. Good. It’s a corn bag.” 

“It’s a what?” 

“Sip a little more water. Okay. It’s a corn bag; it’s for keeping your hands or feet warm when you’re cold.” 

Bucky sets the glass of water down on the side table next to the cupcake box and pokes at the warm bag. “Feels kinda nice.” 

“Thought it might.” Steve watches his face carefully. “Need anything else? Maybe some Pepto?” 

Bucky considers, tilting his face up at Steve (and at this angle, the jawline really does melt into pure chubby cheek and it’s unfairly adorable, if one can call ex-assassins adorable- Steve thinks he's entitled). “Mmm… probably a good idea.” His stomach emits a long, unhappy gurgle as he shifts slightly on the couch, and he pets its side cautiously. “... Yeah, definitely.”

 

~~~~~

 

Steve then supervises a very thorough belly rub session, which begins with Steve next to Bucky on the couch but quickly devolves into Steve on his knees in front of Bucky, mouthing his lower belly while his hands continue to work their magic. Through all this, Bucky works out a couple of long belches, and these, along with Steve's ministrations, soon have him feeling marginally better. By a large margin, if the awakening of his dick is anything to measure by. 

Steve doesn't take long to notice this development, and he grins conspiratorially. 

“Why, good morning, soldier.” 

At this, Bucky flicks Steve's forehead. “Hey. Not funny.” 

“It's a little funny.” Both of them are smiling now, and indeed, it's a testament to just how far they've come that yes, this is a little funny. 

Steve takes the next moment to hook lithe fingers into the taut waistband of Bucky’s basketball shorts, pulled down low beneath the swell of his gut. 

Steve’s mouth is on Bucky’s dick before Bucky can even take another breath.

 

~~~~~

 

There's something about being able to shut up a fast-talking homegrown New York superhero with just the lure of your anatomy. Bucky’s next breath is a quick inhale, one that causes his packed gut a slight twinge of discomfort, but he's already beyond caring. Steve keeps up his gentle rubbing of Bucky’s belly with one hand, letting the other flutter along to join his mouth in ministering to Bucky’s dick. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve murmurs, coming up for air and to press fervent kisses to Bucky’s lips, his neck, back down to his belly and then along his length before swooping in again with his whole, hot mouth, moaning around Bucky, taking him in all the way to the base. 

“That's,” Bucky pants when Steve comes up to kiss him again, “one benefit to getting your tonsils out as a kid.” 

Steve winks at him filthily and goes back down, working his tongue into Bucky’s slit, making him mewl with pleasure. Steve swirls his tongue the same way once more, then stops. 

“Want to make you come, baby, you're so beautiful like this, you drive me crazy.” Steve leans forward to babble this into Bucky’s neck, to tug his hair aside roughly and mouth at that sweet spot below his ear. “Can you come when I tell you?” It’s slightly uncomfortable to have Steve's weight partially pressed on his belly, but Bucky can also feel Steve’s own dick against his lower belly, hard enough to scratch diamond. 

“Yes,” Bucky sputters, “Yes, honey, yes yes yes.”

Steve moans softly and stills his still-massaging hand for a moment to reach down and give himself a quick squeeze. He kneels back again, licking a long stripe along the side of Bucky’s belly, and Bucky shivers. 

Steve works with just his mouth for a while, getting Bucky back to the panting stage, and then eases off, taking quick moments to divest himself of shoes and shirt and to undo his pants and zipper. 

“Almost.” Bucky makes another small noise in the back of his throat, lies back and thinks of England. Tea with milk in it, hard cookies, haggis. He will not come yet. Rain. Rain boots. Jesus Christ on a biscuit, he's so close he's teetering on the edge of the white cliffs. Steve is a glorious visage in front of him, haloed in waning sunlight from the window, hair tipped white gold where Bucky’s hand has mussed it as he tugs gently while Steve continues to work his tongue and his hands. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” Steve moves his belly-rubbing hand to his own dick and keeps stroking Bucky with the other. His voice is hoarse with arousal. “You can come now.” 

He dips down again with superhuman speed, adds his mouth back into the mix, and Bucky feels Steve's fingers clench around his dick as he comes, Steve milking him until he's spent. Steve then goes back to his own dick with both hands and that same superhuman speed as Bucky lies back, boneless, blinking up at him with heavily-lidded eyes. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Bucky says, feeling a lazy smile stretch his face, and Steve’s face instantly slides into that familiar orgasmic expression, his cum hot on Bucky’s belly. 

They both stay there for a few moments grinning at each other like two fools in love (and ain't that the truth), and then Bucky starts laughing. 

“Hate to make you clean on your birthday, Stevie, but to tell the truth, I don't think I can get up right now. Digesting and all.” 

Steve stands, strokes Bucky's hair fondly. “S’no trouble.” He bends to tickle Bucky’s ear with his breath. “Besides, I have to go get you a fork and a plate for that cupcake.”

 

~~~~~

 

The cupcake goes down easier than the last few hot dogs, despite Bucky’s still-painful fullness. Steve feeds it to him tiny forkful by tiny forkful, taking frequent pauses to let Bucky sip water and let out some burps, some short, some long and rumbling. 

Finally, Bucky’s on the last bite, his mouth opening obediently when Steve says, his eyes closed in fullness and contentment. 

They're still on the couch together when Natasha returns with a jingle of keys, Bucky at least halfway asleep on Steve's shoulder, Steve's arm wrapped around him. 

Natasha stands in the doorway, keys dangling from her index finger, pushing the door shut with her foot. 

“So how many hot dogs  _ did  _ you end up eating, after all?”

Bucky startles completely awake and hiccups. He pats his belly, looking sheepish. “Thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one,” Nat says musingly. “One for each year Steve’s been unfrozen. Aww, how cute.” 

“Yup,” Steve says proudly. “Thirty-one. And a cupcake to grow on.” 

“... and a cupcake to grow on.” 

~~~~~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr at superstringtheory.tumblr.com. I'm all about that soft jawline and those thighs of betrayal.


End file.
